


Confiteor

by Hydroxide



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Confessional, Gen, Genocide, Psychological Trauma, Regret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hydroxide/pseuds/Hydroxide
Summary: King Runeard is dead; his body broken, his deeds reviled. Yet there had been a time when the monster of Arendelle had done the unthinkable, when the despot had bent his head - but not his knees - within the walls of a confession booth. In a moment forgotten by history, to a man who would never speak of it, Runeard confesses. And the walls listen."Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa..."
Kudos: 2





	Confiteor

**Chapter 1: _By my most grievous fault_**

_So full of artless jealousy is guilt,_

_It spills itself in fearing to be spilt._

_-William Shakespeare_

* * *

You're not saying anything.

Good. I like you already. It shows intelligence, forethought. I have to say, I like the idea of this booth; slotted mahogany panels to absorb sound, velvet lining in the gaps. Made for secrecy. And of course, this wooden barrier. Supposedly so that neither person can see the other.

But you already know who I am. That's why you've stayed silent.

Only, I don't know who you are. I could find out, of course. It doesn't matter if I ever lay eyes on you, or if you have a way of leaving this booth unseen; by sundown today I will have your name and the name of all your living relations, in Arendelle and abroad. By sunrise tomorrow I'll know what you had for supper tonight.

But that would be inane. I like the anonymity; yours, not mine. Without a face, I don't need to think about who I'm speaking to. I can simply speak.

Usually you'd steer the exchange back, wouldn't you? Pivot back to talking about their sins, their guilt, their gnawing conscience. Silently nodding and prodding as you let them stew in the shame of their words, waiting, tensely waiting, for you to provide that catharsis of forgiveness. To dispense their penance, and then there's that rush of relief and that escape of breath. Must be intoxicating, to wield so much power with your words, your heaven-blessed authority.

You're calm. Surprising, really. I've been timing your breathing; eleven, maybe twelve breaths a minute. You're surprised I can do that? Believe me. I learned to pay attention to breathing a long time ago. I might even tell you the story one day.

Story. Let's start with one, then.

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

I'm telling the story of two brothers, living in a small kingdom by the sea.

Theirs is a large house overlooking the sea, and they live with their parents. Their father is a kind man, if a little unassertive; when he is stressed or confused, his eyes always seek out their mother. Theirs is a happy marriage, or as happy as one could be under the circumstances.

The older brother is a pillar of iron. Already big enough to have his own sword and use it well; at twelve he towers over most of the castle staff already. By the time his growth spurt hits, no one doubts that he would have an impressive stature worthy of a warrior of legend. He smiles rarely, walks instead of skips, and occupies his time with horse riding, careful study, fencing lessons, and other activities worthy of the heir apparent.

The younger brother is everything the older is not. He runs down the hallways at full speed, crashing into suits of armor and colliding with servants bearing full stacks of folded laundry and salad plates. When he scuffs his knee, he cries; when he is bored of his lessons, he stalks off towards the harbor to watch the birds and the ships coming in. He is often sickly, once or twice he's come down with a cough. His mother worries that she's passed on the bleeding sickness that runs in the maternal line of her family. She dotes on him like a lame puppy. It irritates his older brother.

They play together. The eldest boy, whenever he is done with his lessons; the younger, whenever he can catch his brother unoccupied. Hide-and-seek in the castle grounds, make-believe in the attic with their old toys. Chess games with made-up rules, and sometimes card games when they can sneak a pack from one of the guards and gamble with candy and chocolate.

But the eldest brother is starting to tire of these games. The younger brother knows it. He has less and less time now; his lessons are getting longer, his physical training more demanding. The crown awaits, and the servants whisper. The king is kind, and just, and good, but the winds of change blow and they will need strength for the storms to come. The older brother can no longer play, and the younger knows it. _First one heir, second one spare._

So the younger brother asks for one last game. An adventure in the woods. So they sneak off, on a Saturday morning, when the sun is bright and the sky is clear.

I'm sorry. Let me continue.

Here, they indulge in make-believe. Hjalti fighting the great Saxon Eadwig, Aren and Kuri fighting the horde of magical monsters. Darting and weaving in between the trees, over rocks and streams—

A shout. The younger brother looks over, and he sees a tall man wearing furs and holding a stick. A dark shadow falls over them both. It's a Northuldra—one of the wild people, who eat little children for dinner.

They scream, and take off running. They can feel his breath behind them, hear his footfalls. They press on, and as they do, they begin to separate. The older brother is taller, stronger, faster; the younger lags behind, his legs are unused to the speed—

Then the younger stumbles, and his hands catch the arm of his older brother.

They lose their footing.

They fall, and all of a sudden where there was ground, there is nothing but open air past the edge of a cliff. Their ears fill with a shriek, a harsh cry from their Northuldra pursuer.

The wind whips past, the mountains and trees blur into a smear, the air accelerates into a scream.

And it ends.

* * *

It took six months for me to recover. I had broken three ribs, the bone in my forearm, the long bone in my hip, and the small bones in my right foot.

I would never forget my mother's screams, when that wagon finally arrived at the castle gates. I remember those warm hands on my feverish face, even as my vision became a crazed tapestry of colors and my skin felt numb. I remember the wagon trembling as she shook my older brother by his shoulders.

It took Hagemund three days to die.

It's pathetic. Sickening. To see all that strength, all that vigor and promise, lying broken in a bed soaked with sweat and his own piss and shit. His spine broken, he is losing control of his bladder and bowels. His muscles wasted, his eyes unseeing, fixed like marbles in his skull every time the doctor would turn his head from one side to the other.

I know, because I am lying beside him. I know the moment he dies, because my mother wails with a voice I never knew she had. A broken sound like a rake on a chalkboard. I can smell that final hiss of his bowels loosening in death as it does for all men. I can see that blurry smear that I know is my father, standing at the doorway, rocking back and forth on his heels, not knowing what to do. Looking, like he always does, to his wife, and seeing that they are both lost.

* * *

You know what happens next, then. Open your history books. With the death of his eldest son, King Halfdan turns to heavy drink and begins to neglect the affairs of governance. The Arenlaw reasserts its autonomy; eventually, its independence. The kingdom shrinks, until King Halfdan's control extends only to the walls of the city and not a league further. It is a subtle change. People begin to refer to the _city_ as Arendelle, not the land and its mountains and forests, nor the people that inhabit them. We shrink to a mote of brick and mortar, clinging to the coastline.

Queen Katherine dies one year later from consumption. Many are surprised she lasts that long, considering she barely eats or drinks after Hagemund's death. My mother is buried in the family crypt, beside her eldest son.

That leaves me. Crippled, hobbled, weak me, limping down the hallways where I once ran and skipped and tripped over everything and nothing. That fierce energy, so unbeatable that Hagemund called me 'Runny'— _stop it, Runny! Slow down or you'll knock down every suit of armor in the halls._

Gone.

The gods are cruel. A half-second more or less, a few feet closer or further, and it could have been Hagemund landing on the snow-pile. The promising king-to-be, the towering prince whose veins throb with purest Viking blood. Instead, the fickle gods ensured the crown would fall to me. Weak second brother, anaemic child, sickly invalid.

I could see it. The disappointment in my father's eyes. The crushing regret—and when the wine takes over on overcast evenings, the flashes of hatred he thinks he can hide.

I find myself thinking sometimes about that old Northuldra with the stick. I blamed him for everything; in my boyhood dreams he loomed large like a giant, screeching with his terrible club. He had chased us off the cliff, he had dashed my brother to death on the rocks. Of course, the passage of the years brings clarity. He had been shouting to warn us from the cliff's edge, and like fools we instead panicked and ran towards the danger instead. He had chased us to try and save us. Perhaps he was even the one who had alerted the guards to the accident; perhaps he's the reason that my parents buried one son instead of two. Logic and sobriety dictates that I owe him my life. Yet—a part of me hates. Hates illogically, unfairly. But hates all the same.

Stop there, clergyman. I hear that intake of breath. I hear your lips part. And I will stop you right there, because the very next word you speak will be your last.

That's better.

So what happens to me?

What happens is that my wounds heal just in time for me to catch another bout of pneumonia. I sweat and cough and shiver and wheeze in bed, struggling to swallow another spoonful of bitter elixir, and then as my tongue curls and the greenish liquid tumbles from my lips, I see—my mother's face, pale and sallow with the tone that I would eventually know as the early sign of her disease. I see her drop the spoon, and hurl the dark glass bottle at the wall with a wordless shriek. It shatters. She leaves.

I know then.

The door slams somewhere to the periphery of my hearing.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. It takes more than one try; they are disconnected, like free weights tied to my waist. My chest seizes with a hacking cough, and the wad of phlegm I swallow tastes of blood. I force myself to my feet. My knees bend, buckle—and for a moment I feel the _drop_ , seeing already in my mind's eye my body crumpling to the floor like a biscuit, the spare finally meeting his end.

But my legs hold.

I limp to the window. It is open; the physicians have recommended a constant flow of fresh air to ward off the foul vapors. The bottom edge rises to my waist.

I lift my hip, slowly and painfully. Until my weight rests on the edge.

Below, the sea roars, each wave dashing onto the rocks with the force of a thousand hammers. Three hundred empty, yawning, beckoning feet is all that separates the younger brother from the fate that should have befallen him, at the foot of that cliff north of Arendelle.

I shift my weight just that bit more, and my feet leave the floor.

The air is cold, the clouds billow and drift like great ships across a grey sky. Geese squawk as they soar in neat formation, and I know it would not make one bit of difference. The world did not stop for Hagemund. It would not stop for me.

I drag myself, wheezing, coughing, back to bed.

* * *

The sin of suicide.

Murder is sinful as it is the killing of a human being; suicide is the murder of oneself. Yes, clergyman—I have read of St. Aquinas. It is destructive, blasphemous—it violates one's will to live, one's responsibility to the community, and one's obligation to the divine gift.

What did I think, up on that ledge?

No will to live. No connection to the community around me—I had failed them, failed in my frailty. The gift was a curse. Aquinas was poisoned before finishing his _Summa Theologiae_.

Perhaps it was weakness that caused me to step back from oblivion. Weakness, dogging me since my birth; weakness that caused the death of the bright elder prince of Arendelle, weakness that caused me to languish in sickness at the edge of death.

You look at me now—in a manner of speaking. You cannot see me, of course. But you look at me now, and you're wondering how I came from then, to now.

I've killed more men than you have ministered to. I've had men and women executed in the night, sent spies and assassins into the homes of unknowing citizens. I took a charming coastal kingdom and turned it into a bastion of strength in the North.

Do I regret?

Look out into the street.

I can hear it. Boots thumping in rhythm, long into the night. Hooves on cobblestones. Ever around the town square, through the streets, at all times. Horse shit stomped into the cracks between the stones, hardened and dried like concrete. The sound does not wake the children. They sleep fitfully through the marching drills, the shouted commands, the neighing of war horses. A generation raised under martial law. One day, they will come of age and give their youthfulness also to the sword and shield.

Do I regret?

With what words will you cajole me? Fear for my immortal soul? If I have a soul, and I don't think I do, I don't think it lives in me anymore. Maybe it was once there. Maybe that was my soul skipping down the hallways astride a wooden toy horse. Maybe that was my soul sneaking into Hagemund's bed during stormy nights.

Maybe that was my soul, broken on the rocks, dashed under the force of five hundred thousand pounds of water pressure.

I dream. Not often, but I do.

I haven't a single nightmare in twenty years. The specter of dark dreams fled from my mind ever since my battles in the Hejaz. I—I suppose I don't know why. I've seen bodies piled high into siege ramps against the walls of Edefal, crushed and trodden beneath waves of Rustam infantry charging and screaming—I've seen desert honeybees build their nest within the rotted-out ribcage of a child, dripping with sweet honey processed from human flesh—I've seen a soldier screaming and flailing as a rat emerged from the open wound in his gangrenous stomach, a morsel of intestine in its jaws. I suppose—the imagination must seem weak and feeble before the sheer irrepressible force of reality. I suppose the part of my mind responsible for creating nightmares simply packed up and quit.

Maybe I will tell you the stories someday, of my years before returning to Arendelle.

Not today, church-man. I can hear your dry heaves behind your handkerchief.

It's not the black dreams that trouble me. Let them return in all their fury.

I—

I dream sometimes that when the Northuldra man shouts at us, we both stop in our tracks, and turn around. Hands in our pockets, as he yells at us for being on his land. He marches us back to the castle gates, where mother pulls on our ears and sends us to bed without supper.

Or I dream that when we fall, my arm jerks and almost pulls away from my shoulder. And I look up and see Hagemund with one mighty arm wrapped around a tree, his other hand clenched around my wrist like a vise. And he swings me up onto safety, then smirks at me and tells me to watch my step, idiot brother.

Those dreams—

The moment when sleep breaks and the coldness of the morning whispers against my skin, or my aged bladder calls me to the privy, or the gull's cry breaks through my sleep, first as a dream-sound, then reverberating in reality.

Runny dies every time. With dawn's light, with the shattering of that dream-world, that little younger prince dies. Crashing down again and again upon rocks, upon dreams, upon regrets. From a cliff, from a castle window, from life into death. He dies, like a weak creeping thing dies.

And I am left.

I am not a weak man, nor a coward. I do not make excuses; I never have, and I will not do so now. You who listen now behind that wooden screen—you may be, even now, marshalling your thoughts to explain away the _thing_ I am today. Childhood trauma etching itself into my mind, the lack of brotherly love turning my heart cold, the loss of one, then both parents, such a terrible blow. The thinking of a scholar, a learned man—looking down from an ivory tower, too far up to smell the shit.

Do not dare.

Weak men hide behind their pasts. Sniveling, craven beasts whining that they are but products of the suffering wrought on them by a cruel world, their choices nothing more than the passive results of forces beyond their control.

I have made my choices. Poor choices, dark choices, terrible choices. I have had my blade at the throats of young boys barely old enough to shave, I have listened to their pleas before the Northern steel bites through their windpipe and then the large artery of their carotid. I have had homes taken away and banished widows to the streets to the mercy of charity.

I, and I alone, make these choices.

Maybe somewhere in my mind is a repository where Hagemund and my parents sit, framed by candles, adorned by incense. I will not enter. I will not sully who they were then with what I do now.

Do I regret?

…

I tire of this, clergyman. This was a mistake. A lapse of judgement. I will tell that lieutenant as much. He means well, for a _Svart_. But he was wrong this time.

Purge from your mind everything you have heard.

Do not forget, I will find you. And I can.

I—

Just go.


End file.
